


Mycroft Holmes: The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

by rory_the_faery



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sweeney Todd (2007)
Genre: Agender Character, Cannibalism, Dark, Dark Lestrade, Dark Mycroft, F/M, Forced Feminization, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Lestrade-centric, M/M, Murder, Mycroft-centric, Nonbinary Sherlock, Pansexual John, agender sherlock, and yes I put all the songs in here, and yes Sherlock is Johanna, bicurious mycroft?, condemned homosexuality, homosexual lestrade, mycroft pines after him a lot more than anthea tbh, pansexual magnussen, pervy magnussen, sort of, victorian era london, wouldn't quite say bisexual in this one, yes with period opinions on homosexuality
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-18
Updated: 2015-01-11
Packaged: 2018-03-02 01:36:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 16,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2794967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rory_the_faery/pseuds/rory_the_faery
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After receiving a life sentence abroad for a crime he did not commit, Mycroft returns to London hoping to find his beloved wife and brother.  And revenge on the man who falsely convicted him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No Place Like London

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Sherlock Holmes: The Demon Barber of Baker Street](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2404064) by [ko_writes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ko_writes/pseuds/ko_writes). 



> This entire fic has already been written (17 chapters), but I'm staggering the updates so that I don't have to post them all at once. But you all won't have to worry about me suddenly going on hiatus with this one because of a block. The next chapter will be up in a day or two and the whole fic should probably all be up by New Year's.
> 
> I tried to cast everyone into roles where I thought they'd be the most themselves (still so bloody pleased with myself for thinking to do Magnussen as Judge Turpin xD), but do keep in mind that most of this is taken directly from the Sweeney Todd film (in fact, I think all/almost all of the dialogue is), so if you see something and it doesn't sound like something that character would normally say, that's why.

At the stern of a modest, but not unattractive looking ship stood a young sailor, eyes gleaning as he looked out onto the city before him. Captain John Watson was his name. "Home at last," he murmured.

_I have sailed the world  
Beheld its wonders_

_From the Dardanelles  
To the mountains of Peru_

_But there's no place like London_

His passenger finally came out of his room. A tall, older man, who looked like he once may have been quite respectable, though now he looked worn and tired, rings of dark circles under his eyes from sleepless nights he'd no doubt had long before John had plucked him off of that dingy-looking boat with limited supplies not far from the shore of Australia.

_No, there's no place like London_

"Mr Holmes?" John asked, surprised to see him out, though he supposed he ought to be as they were within sight of the city.

_You are young  
Life has been kind to you_

_You will learn_

Mycroft, at first, did not respond to the lad, staring off at the city he hadn't seen in years, lost in his thoughts.

_There's a hole in the world  
Like a great black pit_

_And the vermin of the world inhabit it_

_And its morals aren't worth  
What a pig could spit_

_And it goes by the name of London_

_At the top of the hole  
Sit a privileged few_

_Making mock of the vermin  
In the lower zoo_

_Turning beauty into filth and greed_

_I too have sailed the world  
And seen its wonders_

_For the cruelty of men  
Is as wondrous as Peru_

_But there's no place like London_

"Is everything all right, Mr Holmes?" John asked with a line of concern crossing his forehead at the older gentleman's tone.

"I beg your indulgence, John," said Mycroft quietly. "My mind is far from easy.. In these once familiar streets, I feel shadows everywhere."

"Shadows?" asked John.

"Ghosts."

_There was a barber and his wife  
And she was beautiful_

_A foolish barber and his wife  
She was his reason and his life _

_And she was beautiful_

_And she was virtuous  
And he was..._

_Naïve_

He could remember it, the last day he'd seen her, with picture-perfect clarity. They'd gone out for a walk, Mycroft and his Anthea, and her baby brother whom they'd adopted, Sherlock, being pushed along in the buggy. Still a tiny little thing, just two years of age, with bright blue eyes and curly hair, just like his sister's. Anthea lifted him up out of the buggy into her arms, stroking his hair and he giggled at Mycroft who was playing with a magnifying glass, making different parts of his face look bigger to the amusement of the baby boy. Anthea smiled as well, kissing her brother on the top of his messy, dark curls, and Mycroft beamed at her.

_There was another man who saw  
That she was beautiful_

_A pious vulture of the law  
Who, with a gesture of his claw_

_Removed the barber from his plate_

That was when the Beadle and several officers had come and seized Mycroft, seemingly out of nowhere. Mycroft had struggled, not knowing what was going on or why they wanted to take him, and Anthea set Sherlock back down in the buggy, trying to help her husband, and equally confused as he.

As Mycroft was dragged off, he could hear his wife calling his name, and Sherlock starting to cry.

_Then there was nothing but to wait_

_And she would fall_

_So soft_  
 _So young_  
 _So lost and_  
 _Oh, so beautiful_

John furrowed his brow slightly, intrigued by the man's story. "And the lady, sir, did she succumb?"

Mycroft faltered slightly. "Oh, that was many years ago," he murmured. "I doubt if anyone would know."

Mr Holmes did not speak again as the ship drew nearer and John's crew docked the ship. As they stepped out onto the street, he looked the young sailor.

"I'd like to thank you, John. If you hadn't spotted me, I'd be lost on the ocean still."

"Will I see you again?" he asked as the man was turning to go. He spoke without looking back over his shoulder.

"You might find me if you like. Around Fleet Street, I wouldn't wonder."

"Until then, my friend," said John, extending his hand to the man. Mycroft glanced down and saw the gesture, but did not take it, instead walking off through the dark and once-familiar streets back to his home, where he hoped perhaps he might find his wife and brother.

_There's a hole in the world  
Like a great black pit_

_And it's filled with people  
Who are filled with shit_

_And the vermin of the world inhabit it_


	2. The Worst Pies in London

Mycroft easily found his way back to his home on Fleet Street. The building looked the same, though darker and much more dreary. Run down. He supposed fifteen long years could do that to a place.

There was the pie shop below where he'd lived and worked. A quaint little place though he'd never spent much time there before. He supposed there was no harm in stopping in, and he could use something to eat. _Lestrade's Meat Pie Emporium._ He thought he'd spoken to a Lestrade once before..in the old days. But certainly not enough that the man would recognise him.

As he stepped inside, he saw a man, perhaps a few years younger than himself but with greying hair, working at a counter. When he heard the bell ring, he glanced up in surprise.

"A customer!" he gasped. Mycroft stilled and considered turning and going back out.

_Wait! What's your rush?  
What's your 'urry?_

_You gave me such a --_

Lestrade quickly brushed off his apron and he slammed the cleaver he'd been using down into the wood countertop. The animated baker then rushed around the counter, tapping Mycroft on his shoulders as if to see if he was really real.

_\-- fright  
I thought you was a ghost!_

_Half a minute, can't you sit?  
Sit you down. _

"Sit!" he ordered and Mycroft quickly obliged.

_All I meant is that I 'aven't seen  
A customer for weeks!_

_Did you come 'ere for a pie, sir?_

_Do forgive me  
If me 'ead's a little vague_

He squashed a bug on the counter with the rolling pin and flicked it off onto the floor. "What was that?"

_But you'd think we had the plague!_

_From the way that people  
Keep avoiding_

"No, you don't!" he said, stepping on a cockroach. Mycroft cringed slightly.

_'eaven knows I try, sir!_

_But there's no one  
Comes in even to inhale_

_Right you are, sir  
Would you like a drop of ale?_

Lestrade came over to pour Mycroft a glass, and then went back around to his work.

_Mind you, I can hardly blame them_

_These are probably  
The worst pies in London_

_I know why nobody cares to take them_

_I should know, I make 'em  
But good? No!_

_The worst pies in London_

_Even that's polite  
The worst pies in London_

_If you doubt it, take a bite_

Mycroft had thought surely the man may have been exaggerating a bit. The food while he'd been away in Australia, and what he'd eaten on the ship was hardly anything good, after all.

They couldn't be _that_ bad.

He bit into the pie and made a face.

Oh, they were.

_Is that just disgusting?  
You have to concede it_

He tried another bite, so as not to seem rude, but that one was just as bad as the last and he quickly spit it out.

_It's nothing but crusting  
'ere, drink this, you'll need it_

_The worst pies in London_

He downed a large gulp of ale and pushed the plate with the pie away from himself.

_And no wonder  
With the price of meat what it is_

_When you get it  
Never thought I'd live to see the day_

_Men'd think it was a treat  
Finding poor animals_

_What are dying in the street_

_Mrs Hooper has a pie shop_

_Does her business  
But I noticed something weird_

_Lately all her neighbours' cats  
Have disappeared_

_'ave to 'and it to her  
What I calls enterprise_

He went on, chopping and rolling out more dough.

_Popping pussies into pies_

_Wouldn't do in my shop_

_Just the thought of it's enough  
To make you sick_

He leaned over the counter with apparent exhaustion.

_And I'm telling you  
Them pussycats is quick_

_No denying times is hard, sir!_

_Even 'arder than  
The worst pies in London_

_Only lard and nothing more  
Is that just revolting_

_All greasy and gritty_

_It looks like it's molting  
And tastes like_

_Well, pity  
A mandrake* alone!_

_With limited wind  
And the worst pies in London_

_Ah, sir, times is 'ard_

_Times is 'ard_

Lestrade picked up the plate and the partially eaten pie and carried it back over to the counter before tapping the man on the shoulder.

"Trust me, dearie, it's gonna take a lot more than ale to wash that taste out. Come with me. We'll get you a nice tumbler of gin, eh?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *mandrake: Victorian English slang for 'homosexual'. Probably used as a derogatory granted the time period, but I don't know for sure.


	3. And He Was Beautiful

"Isn't this homey, now?"

Lestrade had led Mycroft out of the shop and into the flat he had attached to it. Tiny little place, with barely enough room for a bed (if you could call it that -- it was really more of a small sofa), and a cupboard, from which the baker pulled out a bottle of gin.

"The cheery wallpaper was a real bargain, too. Only partly singed when the chapel burned down," he said as he poured Mycroft out some gin.

"There you go. You sit down, warm your bones."

Mycroft took the gin and downed a sip, glad to have something that adequately washed the taste of that awful pie out of his mouth. "You've a room over the shop here? Times are so hard, why don't you rent it out?"

"What, up there?" he asked. "No, I won't go near it. People think it's 'aunted."

"Haunted?" asked Mycroft, arching his brow.

"Yeah," said Greg, sitting down on the bed. "And who's to say they're wrong? You see.. years ago, something 'appened up there. Something not very nice."

_There was a barber and his wife  
An' he was beautiful_

_A proper artist with a knife  
But they transported him for life_

_And he was beautiful_

"Barker, 'is name was. Benjamin Barker," mused the shopkeeper.

"What was his crime?" asked Mycroft, setting down his glass.

"Foolishness."

_He had this wife, you see_  
 _Pretty little thing, silly little nit_

_'ad her chance  
For the moon on a string_

_Poor thing_

_Poor thing_

_There was this judge, you see_

_Wanted 'er like mad  
Every day 'e sent her a flower_

_But did she come down from her tower?  
Sat up there and sobbed by the hour_

_Poor fool_

_Ah, but there was worse yet to come  
Poor thing_

_Well, Beadle calls on 'er all polite_

_Poor thing  
Poor thing_

_The Judge, he tells her is all contrite_   
_He blames 'imself for her dreadful plight_   
_She must come straight to his house tonight!_

_Poor thing  
Poor thing_

Mycroft listened with his brow furrowed as Lestrade told the story. He wasn't entirely sure where this was going, but he didn't like it.

_Of course, when she goes there_  
 _Poor thing, poor thing_

_They're 'aving this ball all in masks_  
There's no one she knows there  
Poor dear, poor thing

_She wanders tormented and drinks  
Poor thing_

_The Judge has repented, she thinks  
Poor thing_

_"Oh, where is Magnussen?"  
She asks_

_He was there all right  
Only not so contrite_

Mycroft's furrowed brow turned to an expression of horror as he realised what the baker was leading up to.

_She wasn't no match for such craft, you see_  
 _And everyone thought it so droll_

_They figured she 'ad to be daft, you see  
So all of 'em stood there and laughed, you see_

_Poor soul_

_Poor thing..._

"No!" screamed Mycroft, practically leaping to his feet. His breath was rapid, his hands clenched into fists. "Would no one have mercy on her?"

Lestrade gasped softly. "So, it is you," he whispered. "Benjamin Barker?"

Mycroft didn't respond, but his question answered Greg's. "Where is Anthea? Where is my wife?"

Lestrade frowned. "She poisoned herself," he answered flatly. "Arsenic, from the apothecary around the corner. I tried to stop 'er, but she wouldn't listen to me." He paused, biting his lip. "An' he's got your little brother-in-law."

"He? Judge Magnussen?"

"Adopted 'im. Like 'is own."

Mycroft was struggling to control himself, pacing like mad across the room. "Fifteen years," he murmured, then louder, angrier. "Fifteen years, I've sweated in a living hell on a false charge. Fifteen years dreaming I might come home to a wife and child."

Lestrade frowned and stood to place a hand on the man's shoulder, trying to calm him. "Well, I can't say the years 'ave been particularly kind to you, Mr. Barker."

"No," Mycroft corrected quickly. "Not Barker."

Lestrade furrowed his brow.

"That man is dead. It's Holmes now. Mycroft Holmes.

_And he will have his revenge_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if there are any errors!


	4. My Friends

Lestrade led the man up the steps outside his shop, past the dusty red and white stripes by the door, and into a room even more dark and dreary than his emporium had been.

"Come in. Nothing to be afraid of, love," said Lestrade, and Mycroft slowly walked in, perhaps a bit overwhelmed by the deteriorating familiarity of the place. Haunted, indeed.

Lestrade was kneeling on the floor, and knocked on one of the boards before lifting it up. Mycroft turned and saw him pull out a box wrapped on cloth. He recognised it, and came closer, kneeling down to look.

"When they came for the boy, I 'id them," he said, handing it over to Mycroft, who seemed enraptured by it.

"Could've sold them, but I didn't," murmured Greg, but Mycroft ignored him, opening the box up and stroking along the razor he picked up.

"Those 'andles is chased silver, ain't they?"

"Silver. Yes," he murmured in reply.

_These are my friends_   
_See how they glisten_

He flicked open the blade, running his fingertips along the dull side.

_See this one shine_

_How he smiles in the light_

_My friend_   
_My faithful friend_

_Speak to me, friend_   
_Whisper, I'll listen_

_I know, I know_

_You've been locked_   
_Out of sight all these years_

_Like me, my friend_

_Well, I've come home_   
_To find you waiting_

_Home_

_And we're together_   
_And we'll do wonders_

_Won't we?_

Lestrade came around behind Mycroft, quiet in his movements, not wanting to disturb him, but wanting him to notice him.

_You there, my friend_

_~I'm your friend, too, Mr Holmes_   
_Come, let me hold you_

_~lf you only knew, Mr Holmes_  
Now, with a sigh

_~Oh, Mr Holmes, you're warm in my hand_   
_You grow warm in my hand_

_My friend_

_~You've come home_   
_My clever friend_

"Always 'ad a fondness for you, I did.." Greg murmured softly as Mycroft placed the razor back into the box.

_Rest now, my friends_

_~Never you fear, Mr Holmes_   
_Soon I'll unfold you_

_~You can move in here, Mr Holmes_   
_Soon you'll know_

_Splendours you never_

_Have dreamed all your days_

_~Will be yours_   
_My lucky friends_

_~I'm your friend and now you're mine_   
_Till now your shine..._

_~Don't they shine beautiful?_   
_...was merely silver_

_~Silver's good enough for me_   
_Friends, you shall drip rubies_

_~Mr 'Olmes_

_You'll soon drip precious_

_Rubies_

Lestrade's hand was rested on Mycroft's shoulder, Mycroft as enamoured with the razors as Lestrade was with the man himself.

"Leave me," whispered Mycroft. Lestrade's hand fell to his side and he stood, going back downstairs to the shop.

_At last, my arm is complete again._


	5. How is it You Sing?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where it gets sort of gendery-wendery because I AM including 19th century attitudes about homosexuality (as I said in the tags), but Judge Magnussen still has Sherlock and still is pervy about him.
> 
> So for clarification: sometimes characters will refer to Sherlock as 'he' and sometimes they refer to Sherlock as 'she' and sometimes they use 'they'. Sorry if that may be confusing.
> 
> As far as Sherlock's actual gender, I'm trying to write him as agender. He's amab. Let it be known, however, that I am not agender, I'm a trans boy, so if you feel I've misrepresented agender people and you, yourself are agender, you're more than welcome to express this to me in the comments, as well as if you think there are specific things I should change. This fic is a living document so to speak, so I'm more than willing to go back and make changes if you all want.
> 
> And to reiterate what's written in the tags:  
> Magnussen is pansexual. John is pansexual. Greg is homosexual. Mycroft is sort-of-bisexual-mostly-straight. And Sherlock is asexual. Wilkes is heterosexual, but that's really not important because he isn't paired with anyone.

Sherlock Barker sat by his windowsill in his bedroom, sketchbook in his hands as he drew yet another sketch of the caged bird the Judge allowed him to keep in his room. He sat here nearly all day, walking being too strenuous most of the time what with the corset he was made to wear. It was unconventional for a boy to wear one, so much that the Judge had seemed to have gotten the ones Sherlock wore only custom made. It held a slim twenty-two inches 'round his waist at his navel, though the rest of him was quite thin enough as well, what with how little he ate.

_Green finch and linnet bird_  
 _Nightingale, blackbird_

_How is it you sing?_

Sherlock never left this place. Not since he'd been taken from his sister when he was just three. He hardly remembered her. His brother-in-law, who'd been like a father since he and Anthea's parents had died, was just a vague echo in his mind. He knew he'd existed, but didn't remember much else.

_How can you jubilate_  
 _Sitting in cages_  
 _Never taking wing?_

_Outside the sky waits_  
 _Beckoning, beckoning_

_Just beyond the bars_

Sherlock wasn't stupid. He knew why Judge Magnussen had him wear this corset. He could see it, of course, plain as day. He wondered why it wasn't obvious to others. Why Beadle Wilkes was stupid enough to be fooled by a corset and some silly little dress the Judge had made him put on.

_How can you remain_  
 _Staring at the rain_

_Maddened by the stars?_

_How is it you sing anything?_

Of course, it wasn't legal. Men courting other men. Much less boys. But who was to stop the most powerful and respectable judge in the city?

_How is it you sing?_

If the judge said his ward was a girl, no one would argue. No one saw her -- him -- save for the few who lived on this street, though they'd do well to keep their mouths shut or the Judge would have a harsh sentence conjured up for them. Sherlock could hardly tell whether he was a boy or a girl by this point. It all seemed rather meaningless in his opinion.

He never left the flat. Perhaps it was good, though, for he was allowed to dress in boys' clothes, save for the corset, as long as the Beadle was not there.

_My cage has many rooms_  
 _Damask and dark_

_Nothing there sings_  
 _Not even my lark_

_Larks never will, you know_  
 _When they're captive_

_Teach me to be more adaptive_

As he glanced out his window, the same view he saw everyday, he saw someone. A man, only a few years older than himself. Young and handsome, and looking up at him. A sailor, recently returned home, here. Young to be a Captain, but looking at him, Sherlock thought he couldn't be anything else. 

He smiled once he caught Sherlock looking down at him, and Sherlock smiled back, even daring to set his pencil down and wave at the lad, unaware of the Judge's shark-like eyes peering through a hole in the wall, watching him. The hole was used for spying, but often more dubious purposes as well, which Sherlock would be bliss to remain unaware of.

_Green finch and linnet bird_  
 _Nightingale, blackbird_

_Teach me how to sing_

_If I cannot fly_

_Let me sing_

Outside, John stared up at the boy...girl? With marvel. Whatever they were, they were beautiful.

"Alms!" cried a ragged-looking woman, her face masked by mangy-looking brunette hair and a bonnet. "Alms for a miserable woman, on a miserable chilly morning."

John, seeing an opportunity to learn about the handsome girl, quickly fished a shilling out of his purse and handed it to her.

"Thank you, sir!" cried the woman. It was rather a lot, especially considering that most were not so kind to the lowlies of the city.

"Ma'am?" he asked. "Could you tell me whose house this is?"

"That's the great Judge Magnussen's house, that is," she said.

"And the young lady who resides there?" John asked.

"Oh, that's Sherlock, his pretty little ward," she said, in a hushed tone. "Keeps him snug, he does. All locked up. So don't you go trespassing there, or it's a good whipping for you, or any other young man with _mischief_ on his mind.."

She said nothing more, and went about her begging, leaving John to stare with wonder at the window the boy had occupied moments ago.

" _Alms! Alms for a desperate woman!_ " he heard the beggar cry as she walked off, and the young sailor was left to daydream of the mysterious beauty he'd seen in the window.

_I feel you, my Sherlock_  
 _I feel you_

_I was half convinced I'd waken_  
 _Satisfied enough to dream you_

_Happily I was mistaken, my Sherlock_

_I'll steal you, my Sherlock_  
 _I'll steal you_

Once again his daydreams were interrupted by the door to the flat swinging open, and an intimidating-looking figure stood in the door.

"Come in, lad. Come in," he said, beckoning John in. John swallowed thickly, thinking of the warning the beggar woman had given him, but going against his better judgement and going in anyway.

"You were looking for Hyde Park, you say?" the Judge asked him as they reached his sitting room and John had explained himself. The flat had grandeur, and also a peculiar amount of...odd paintings on the walls.

"Yes," he answered, drawing himself out of his thoughts. "It's very large on the map, but I keep getting lost."

"Sit down, lad, sit down," said the Judge, nodding towards the chair beside the fireplace. John obliged, rubbing his legs a bit anxiously.

"It's embarrassing for a sailor to lose his bearings," he admitted, "but there you are."

"A sailor?" asked Magnussen with an arch of his brow, and his face looked as though he was...cataloguing the information. John remained hesitant, but spoke again.

"Yes, sir. The _Bountiful_ , out of Plymouth."

"A sailor must know the ways of the world, yes?" murmured the Judge, fingers brushing over his bookcase, eyes glossing over the spines of various books.

"Must be practiced in the ways of the world...Would you say you were practiced, boy?"

John furrowed his brow. "Sir?" he asked, but Magnussen ignored him for a moment.

"Oh, yes," he said, pulling out a book. "Such practices...the geishas of Japan..the concubines of Siam..the catamites of Greece... " He paused, replacing that book in favour of another.

"The harlots of India."

He pulled the book off the shelf, thumbing through the pages, but not showing John. John had a fair idea of what was on those pages though.

"I have them all here. Drawings of them. Everything you've ever dreamed of doing..with a woman." He paused, closing the book, and placing it back on the shelf. "Would you like to see?"

"I think there's been some mistake," said John quietly.

"I think not," replied the Judge sternly. He stepped away from the bookcase. "You gandered at my ward, Sherlock. You _gandered_ at her." John stood, about to protest, but the Judge cut him off.

"Yes, sir, you gandered."

John relented. "I meant no harm."

"Your meaning is immaterial," Magnussen said coldly, and just as John backed away, the Judge advanced on him. "Mark me," he spoke with a harshness to his voice. "If I see your face again on this street, you'll rue the day you were born."

Just as John was scrambling to grab his bag and be on his way, he was grabbed by Beadle Sebastian Wilkes and dragged out the bag, thrown onto the kerb. John was almost about to scramble off, not even caring enough about his bag to want to retrieve it when he was struck on the head with the cane, and then again on the back.

"Hyde Park is that way, young sir! A left and a right and straight on, you see?" Another blow to the back with the cane.

"Move on, now! You heard what Judge Turpin said,  
little man." His cane pressed onto John's forehead as he turned to look at the Beadle.

"Next time, it'll be your pretty little brains all over the pavement." As he pulled the cane away and stepped inside, John keeled over in the street, coughing. Moments later his bag was thrown out, hitting him.

He took a moment to catch his breath, but he kept moving around the corner, stealing one more glance at the window to find Sherlock there. The girl gave a weak smile and opened the window, though not to speak, but to toss a key with a blue ribbon tied 'round it out to the sailor. John grabbed it up quickly and gave Sherlock one final glance just as he closed his window, before running off down the street, heart filled with love and joy in spite of the caning and the threat.

_I'll steal you, my Sherlock_  
 _I'll steal you_

_Do they think that walls can hide you?_  
 _Even now, I'm at your window_

_I am in the dark beside you_  
 _Buried sweetly in your curly hair_

_I feel you, my Sherlock_  
 _And one day_  
 _I'll steal you_

_Till I'm with you then_  
 _I'm with you there!_

_Sweetly buried in your curly hair!_


	6. Pirelli's Miracle Elixir

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still very pleased about casting Sally as Toby. Sally Donovan is the bae.

"He's here every Thursday. Italian. All the rage 'e is."

Lestrade and Mycroft walked into the busy centre, where a crowd had gathered around a small stage set up in the middle of the area, the name _Signor Pirelli_ printed on all the banners around it.

"Best barber in London, they say," Lestrade went on.

A girl came out of the tent who couldn't be more than ten years of age or so, pretty, though young enough to have a boyish frame still, and dark-skinned.

"Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please?" And she did, of course, as it seemed this was what everyone was gathered 'round for.

"Do you wake every morning in shame and despair to discover your pillow is covered with hair what ought not to be there?

"Well, ladies and gentlemen from now on you can waken at ease! You need never again have a worry or care; I will show you a miracle marvelous rare. Gentlemen, you are about to see something what rose from the dead!" As she pulled off her hat, the girl revealed her thick, lush, kinky brown hair.

"On the top of my head!"

_'Twas Pirelli's Miracle Elixir_

_That's what did the trick, sir_   
_True, sir, true_

_Was it quick, sir? Did it in a tick, sir_   
_Just like an elixir ought to do_

"How about a bottle, mister?" she asked, offering to one man in the crowd. "Only costs a penny, guaranteed!"

_Does Pirelli's stimulate the growth, sir?_

_You can have my oath, sir_   
_'Tis unique_

To demonstrate, the girl poured out a small amount of the elixir on a man's head, rubbing it into his scalp.

_Rub a minute_   
_Stimulating, inn't it?_

_Soon you'll have to thin it_   
_Once a week!_

Mycroft wrinkled his nose, smelling something foul after the girl had opened the bottle. "Pardon me, ma'am  
what's that awful stench?"

"Are we standing in an open trench?" asked Lestrade, smelling it too. 

"Must be standing near an open trench!" concurred Mycroft.

_Buy Pirelli's Miracle Elixir_

_Anything what's slick, sir_   
_Soon sprouts curls_

_Try Pirelli's_   
_When they see how thick, sir_

_You can have your pick, sir_   
_Of the girls_

"Want to buy a bottle, missus?"

"What is this?" Mycroft asked as the bottle was passed to him through the crowd. "What is this? Smells like piss."

He handed it to Lestrade who smelled it. "Smells like..." he wrinkled his nose as the stench hit him. "Ugh!"

"Looks like piss!" said Mycroft.

"Wouldn't touch it if I was you, dear!" said Lestrade to a woman about to take the bottle from him, instead handing it back to Mycroft.

"This is piss, piss with ink," concluded Mycroft upon final examination of the bottle.

_Let Pirelli's activate your roots, sir!_

"Keep it off your boots, sir. Eats right through," said Mycroft to a man beside him.

_Yes, get Pirelli's, use a bottle of it_   
_Ladies seem to love it_

"Flies do, too," said Lestrade, and the crowd uproared into laughter.

Out from the tent behind the stage then suddenly emerged a rather ridiculous-looking man.

"I am Adolfo Pirelli, the king of the barbers, the barber of kings, _e buon giorno_ , good day!" he announced. "I blow you a kiss!" he said softer to a woman towards the front of the crowd. Then he went on.

"And I, the so famous Pirelli, I wish-a to know-a who has-a the nerve-a to say my elixir is piss." He paused, glaring angrily into the crowd. "Who says this?"

"I do," Mycroft chimed up after a long moment of silence among the crowd. "I am Mr Mycroft Holmes of Fleet Street. I have opened a bottle of Pirelli's Elixir." He turned his back to Pirelli to instead address the crowd. "And I say to you that it is nothing but an arrant fraud, concocted from piss and ink."

He then turned back to the Italian. "Furthermore, Signor, I have serviced no kings, yet I wager that I can shave a cheek with ten times more dexterity, than any street mountebank," he said with disdain.

And then he withdrew from his coat, two of the chased silver razors. "Do you see these razors?" he asked, waving them about, so the whole crowd could see his offer. "I lay them against £5." He then spoke quietly, with a faint grin playing at his lips, though he suppressed it. "You are no match, sir. Either accept my challenge, or reveal yourself as a sham."

Pirelli let out a small chuckle as he looked up from the man to the crowd.

"You hear this foolish man? Now, please, you will see how he will-a regret-a his-a folly!" he said as he tore off the obnoxiously coloured cape he wore over his even-more obnoxiously cobalt blue suit. "Sally!" he cried at his servant girl to start setting up his chair.

"Who's for a free shave?" called Mycroft, and several men raised their hands. As a chair was placed for him (one much more modest-looking than the one the girl had drug out for Signor Pirelli), there were two men soon up on the stage and sat in the chairs. Mycroft's eyes scanned through the crowd and he smirked as he saw a face he knew.

"Will Beadle Wilkes be the judge?"

The beadle perked up at his name. "Glad, as always, to oblige my friends and neighbours," he said with that ghastly voice of his that always sounded like a sneer. He made his way up towards the front of the crowd and onto the stage. "Ready?"

"Ready!" shouted Pirelli as the girl draped a cloth with an Italian flag printed on it over the man in the chair. Mycroft used the white cloth he'd been handed.

"Ready," said Mycroft quietly. No need to be obnoxious as Pirelli. The man irritated him.

"The fastest, smoothest shave is the winner!" called out Beadle, and both barbers went to work, Signor Pirelli quickly sharpening his blade against the winces of his servant girl as the blade hit her bandaged fingers, while Holmes slowly dragged his blade back and forth, knowing the time taken sharpening would pay off for a much smoother shave.

_Now, signorini, signori_   
_We mix-a the lather_

_But first-a_   
_You gather around, signorini, signori_

_You looking a man who have_   
_Had-a the glory to shave-a the Pope!_

_Mr Mycroft, whoever_   
_I beg-a you pardon_

_You'll probably say_   
_It was only a cardinal_

_Nope!_

_It was-a the Pope!_

By now, Pirelli had set down his blade and was lathering on the shaving cream to his man's face. Mycroft went on sharpening.

_To shave-a the face_   
_To cut-a the hair_

_Require the grace_   
_Require the flair_

_For if-a you slip_   
_You nick the skin_

_You clip-a the chin_   
_You rip-a the lip a bit_

_Beyond-a repair_

_To shave-a the face_

_Or even a part_   
_Without it-a smart_

_Require the heart_

_Not just-a the flash_

_It take-a panache_   
_It take-a the passion for the art_

Passion for the art. Mycroft suppressed a laugh, as he went on sharpening. Pirelli was slowly making his way across the man's face with his razor.

_To shave-a the face_   
_To trim-a the beard_

_To make-a the bristle_   
_Clean like a whistle_

_This is from early infancy_   
_The talent give to me_

_By God_

Pirelli made a cross over his chest with the razor, looking up into the sky for a moment.

_It take-a the skill_   
_It take-a the brains_

_It take-a da will_   
_To take-a the pains_

_It take-a the pace_   
_It take-a the grace_

Not hardly half a minute after he'd finished sharpening the blade and applying the cream, Mycroft had swiftly and efficiently removed all the hair from his man's face.

"The winner," cried out the beadle, "is Holmes!"

Pirelli's face exposed for a brief moment a flare of anger, but then it turned to an overly false smile and he gave Mycroft a bow, seemingly impressed.

"Sir, I bow to a skill far greater than my own," he said diplomatically. Painfully false that it almost made Mycroft cringe.

"The £5," he said flatly.

Pirelli indulged, handing him a note. "May the good Lord smile on you. Until we meet again." Mycroft certainly hoped not to meet him again. The Italian turned to his servant. "Come, girl. Come!" he snapped.

"Suppose it's just me gentle heart," said Lestrade as he came up to Mycroft's side, "but I do hate to see a girl treated like that."

Mycroft ignored him once more, interests peaked by the beadle that approached them.

"Congratulations, Mr Holmes," said Sebastian. "May I ask you, sir, do you have your own establishment?"

"He certainly does," answered Lestrade for him. "Mycroft 'Olmes' Tonsorial Parlor, above my Meat Pie Emporium in Fleet Street."

"I thank you, sir," said Mycroft to the beadle, very thinly masking how he was kissing up to him. "You are a paragon of integrity."

Beadle Wilkes was oblivious by his vanity. "Well, I try to do my best for my friends and neighbors." He glanced at Lestrade briefly and back to Holmes. "Your establishment is in Fleet Street, you say?"

"Yes, sir," replied Mycroft.

"Then, Mr Holmes," said the beadle, "you shall surely see me there before the week is out."

"You will be welcome, Beadle Wilkes," said Mycroft. "And I can guarantee to give you, without a penny's charge..the closest shave you will ever know." A smirk crossed his lips as the beadle nodded and walked off, and Lestrade tugged at his arm.

"Come on, love," said the baker, taking his arm to bring him back to Fleet Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you spot any grammatical and/or formatting errors. I'm posting most of these from my tablet so the HTML can be a bitch.


	7. Patience is a Virtue

"It's not much of a chair, but it'll do," Lestrade said as he flopped into the chair in the middle of Mycroft's floor. "Was me poor Albert's chair. Sit in it all day long 'e did, after his leg gave out with the gout..."

"Why doesn't the Beadle come?" growled Mycroft, pacing madly by the window. A man obsessed. "'Before the week is out,' that's what he said."

Lestrade frowned slightly. "Well, who says the week's out? It's only Tuesday."

_Easy now_   
_Hush, love, hush_

_Don't distress yourself_   
_What's your rush?_

_Keep your thoughts_   
_Nice and lush_

_Wait_

Mycroft was still pacing by the window, and Lestrade stood, walking over beside him, looking down with him out the window.

_Hush, love, hush_   
_Think it through_

_Once it bubbles_   
_Then what's to do?_

_Watch it close_   
_Let it brew_

_Wait_

He stepped away from the window, glancing around the still-dreary-looking room.

_I been thinking flowers_   
_Maybe daisies_

_To brighten up the room_

_Don't you think some flowers_   
_Pretty daisies_

_Might relieve the gloom?_  
Mycroft was ignoring him, still.

_Wait_

_Love, wait_

"And the Judge? When'll we get to him?" he growled, stepping away from the window.

"Can't you think of nothing else?" asked Lestrade with a frown painted on his face. "Always brooding away on your wrongs and what happened 'eaven knows how many years ago."

_Slow, love, slow_   
_Time's so fast_

_Now goes quickly_   
_See, now it's past_

_Soon will come_   
_Soon will last_

_Wait_

_Don't you know_   
_Silly man_

_Half the fun is to plan the plan?_   
_All good things_   
_Come to those who can_

_Wait_

_Gillyflowers, maybe_   
_'Stead of daisies_

_I don't know, though_   
_What do you think?_

What did he think? Mycroft thought nothing could brighten up the room like the blood of the Judge spattered across his floor.


	8. The Unfortunate Demise of Signor Pirelli

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No songs in this one. Next one will though~

A young lad burst in through the door into the room, interrupting Mr Holmes and Mr Lestrade. Mycroft glanced up and recognised him as John Watson.

"Oh! Excuse me.." said the boy.

"Lestrade," he said, getting up out of the chair.

"A pleasure, sir." He turned his attention to Mycroft. "Mr Holmes, there's a girl who needs my help. Such a sad girl and lonely -- but beautiful, too and..."

"Slow down, son," said Mycroft.

"Yes. I'm sorry," John said, biting his lip and pausing to restrain himself a bit. "This girl -- boy? -- he has a guardian who keeps him locked away, but then, this morning, he dropped this," he said, holding up the key that the peculiar boy had tossed to him, "surely a sign that Sherlock wants me to help him -- that's his name, Sherlock." He paused, biting his lip. Or perhaps he was a girl. John could hardly tell. It didn't matter..whatever they were, they were beautiful and John wanted them away from that awful place.

"And Magnussen is her guardian," he went on. "He's a judge of some sort. Once he goes to court, I'm going to slip into the house, release her and beg her to come away with me tonight."

"Oh, this is very romantic," remarked Lestrade, though Mycroft furrowed his brow slightly at the confused pronouns the boy used.

"Yes," said John smiling faintly at the baker's remark. "But I don't know anyone in London, you see. And I need somewhere safe to bring her till I've hired a coach to take us away. If I could keep her here -- just for an hour or two, I'd be forever in your debt."

"Bring her here, love," said Lestrade.

"Thank you, sir," said John, though still looking for Mycroft's approval as well. "Mr Holmes?"

Mycroft thought on it a moment. This could be his Sherlock. It wasn't a common name -- how could it be any other Sherlock? But the way John confused his gender made Mycroft a bit wary. He supposed it could be no harm, and nodded in agreement.

"Oh, thank you," John said energetically. "Thank you, thank you, my friend." He turned to Lestrade once more. "Thank you, sir," and he turned and left.

Lestrade came back around and sat down in the chair again. "Seems like the Fates are favoring you at last, Mr 'Olmes." Though Mycroft seemed more bothered than pleased. "What is it? You'll 'ave him back before the day is out."

"What about _him_?" said Mycroft, standing back by the window.

"Him?" Lestrade asked, pointing at the door where John had stood moments ago. "Oh, well. Let 'im bring the boy 'ere," he said as he got up from his chair to stand beside Mycroft again, looking out the window. "And then, since you're so hot for a little...that's the throat to slit, my dear."

Mycroft perked up slightly at that, but still stood by the window, pensive as he mulled it over. Lestrade saw someone approaching the shop from out the window.

"Hello. What's 'e doing here?"

"Keep the girl downstairs," Mycroft ordered and Gregory nodded, walking down the stairs and out to see Signor Pirelli and his servant girl.

"Signora, is Mr Holmes at home?" he asked, and Greg tried not to bristle slightly at the deliberately effeminate word used. He was certainly one to talk, dressed like _that_ , Greg thought.

"Plying his trade upstairs," said the baker, then looking down at the girl with a softer expression. "Would you look at it now?" he cooed, and then glanced back up at Pirelli. "You wouldn't mind if I gave it a nice juicy meat pie, would you?"

"Sì, sì, sì. Whatever you want," replied the Italian curtly.

"Come on, darling," said Lestrade, leading the girl inside. "Your teeth are strong, I hope. Close the door. Get you a nice lovely pie." He smiled at the girl as he set down a plate with a pie on the table. "Sit down. Make yourself comfy."

The girl took a bite, and surprisingly wasn't disgusted, though Lestrade didn't doubt that had to do with her looking like she barely got enough to eat. She hungrily dug into the pie and Lestrade grinned slightly, pleased at least _someone_ could enjoy his pies.

"I like to see a woman with a healthy appetite," said Lestrade. "Reminds me of my dear Isabelle. Liked to gorge 'erself to bloatation, she did." The baker glanced up at a picture of his aunt he had hanging up in the kitchen. She was a plump-looking older woman with stringy, thinning hair. "She didn't have your nice 'ead of hair, though," he said, turning back to the girl and smiling.

Upstairs, Pirelli was lurking in the doorway to Mycroft's place.

"Come in," said Mycroft when he knocked.

"Mr Holmes."

"Signor Pirelli."

The heavy Italian accent slipped as he spoke, revealing the man to be a Londoner. "Call me Phillip," he said. "Phillip Anderson's the name, when it's not professional." He walked into the room, looking around at the shabby furniture, the old wallpaper.

"I'd like the five quid back, if you don't mind."

"Why?" Mycroft asked, eyeing the man warily.

"Because you entered into our little wager under false pretenses, my friend," he said, brushing his fingertips along the back edge of the chair in the middle of the room.

"So that you might remember to be a bit more forthright in the future, I'll be taking half your profits from herewith," he said. "Share and share alike." His voice dropped to a low chuckle. "Mr Benjamin Barker."

Mycroft's expression dropped to a frown, his gaze on the man ever more wary.

"You don't remember me, do you?" went on Anderson, tilting his head slightly. "Why should you? I was just a little nip that you hired for a couple of weeks, sweeping up hair." He picked up one of the razors from the box left out on Mycroft's table. "But I remember these," he said quietly. He set it back down, looking at Mycroft for a moment, and then going to sit on a chest in the corner of the room.

"And how could I ever forget you, Mr. Barker?" he said. "I used to sit right here. Dream of the day when I could be a proper barber myself. You might say that you was...inspiration to me."

He stood then, walking around Mycroft in a predatory circle. "So, is we got a deal? Or should I run down the street to me old pal, Beadle Bamford?" he threatened. "What do you say to that, now, Mr _Mycroft Holmes?_ "

In an instant, like a reflex, or perhaps it was just the pent up rage inside the man, Mycroft grabbed the kettle on the fire just as it was about to boil and swung it at Anderson's face, hitting him over and over until he seemed to be dead.

The thuds of the man being beaten and falling to the floor could be heard downstairs and Lestrade started clanking around pots and pans to try and cover up the noise from the girl.

"My, my, my. Always work to be done," he said, setting down the rolling pin with more force than necessary. "Spic and span, that's my motto." He bit his lip, quickly trying to change the subject. "So, 'ow'd you end up with that dreadful Italian?"

"Got me from the workhouse," said the girl. "Been there since I was born." Her train of thought seemed to flutter for a moment and she interrupted herself in panic. "Oh, God! He's got an appointment with his tailor! If he's late, he'll blame me!" she said, jumping out of her seat.

"Wait!" Lestrade tried to run after him, but the girl was already halfway up the stairs.

"Signor! You got an appointment!" said the girl as she burst into the room upstairs. The room was clear, Signor Pirelli was nowhere in sight, and Mycroft stood in the corner, pouring himself a cuppa tea.

"Signor Pirelli's been called away," murmured Mycroft. "Better run after him."

"No, sir. I should stay here, or it'll be a lashing," replied the girl. "He's a great one for the lashings."

"What's your name, love?" asked Mycroft conversationally, as the girl sat down on a chest. Mycroft swallowed thickly when he saw that Anderson's hand was still sticking out of the chest Mycroft had crammed him into, which was the same one the girl sat on.

"Sally, sir. Sally Donovan." The hand twitched, and Mycroft needed to act quickly. He pulled the girl up from the chest, guiding her toward the door.

"So, Mr Lestrade gave you a pie, did he?" asked Mycroft.

Sally nodded. "He's a real gentleman."

"That he is," Mycroft mused. "But if I know a growing girl, there's still room for more pie, eh?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then why don't you wait for your master downstairs?" he offered. "Be another pie in it for you, I'm sure."

Sally frowned and shook her head. "No, I should stay 'ere."

Mycroft bit his lip, getting more panicked as he saw the hand twitch again.

"Tell you what, why don't you tell Mr Lestrade..that I said to give you a nice big tot of gin."

The girl's face lit up. "Thank you, sir!" she said, quickly rushing about down the stairs back to the shop below.

Once she was gone, Mycroft picked up one of his blades and walked slowly towards the chest. As he opened it, emerged a battered and bloody Signor Pirelli, gasping through his last breaths.

Mycroft, being a merciful man, put him out of his misery.


	9. Pretty Women

"You ought to slow down a bit, love," said Gregory after Sally downed her second tumbler of gin. "It'll go straight to your 'ead."  
    
"They used to give it to us in the workhouse so as we could sleep," said the girl. "Not that you'd want to sleep in that place, sir. Not with the things what happen in the dark."  
    
"That's nice, dear," murmured Lestrade absently, his mind far from whatever it was Sally had been going on about.  "Think I'll just pop in on Mr Holmes for a tick," he said, standing up and picking up the gin to take it with him. "You all right, there?"

"Leave the bottle," said the girl.  Lestrade sighed with some reluctance but decidedly set the bottle back down on the table, heading upstairs to check on Mycroft.  
    
"That girl is drinking me out of house and home," he said as he came in, absently flopping back into the chair. "How long 'til Pirelli gets back?"  
    
Mycroft was polishing off the razor and spoke in a low voice. "He won't be back."  Lestrade looked up at the man, seeing the blood on his sleeve, and gasped.  
    
"Mr 'Olmes, you didn't!" he whispered, jumping up out of the chair and going to close the door so no one would hear.  He glanced at the trunk by the door, the only place Mycroft could've stashed the body.  "You're barking mad! Killing a man what done you no harm."  
    
"He recognized me from the old days," said Mycroft flatly.  "Tried to blackmail me. Half my earnings."  
    
Lestrade visibly relaxed.  "Oh, well, it's a different matter then," he said.  "For a moment there, I thought you'd lost your marbles."  He walked over to the trunk, glancing at Mycroft a moment before opening it.  "All that blood...Poor bugger."  He fished around in the man's jacket for a moment before extracting a small purse.  "Oh, well."  He shook the purse, finding it was filled with coins, and pocketed it.  "Waste not, want not."  

He let the trunk fall closed and looked back up at Mycroft, with a more serious expression.  "So, what are we gonna do about the girl then?"  
    
"Send her up," Mycroft murmured, still cleaning off his precious razor.  
    
"Oh, we don't need to worry about her. She's a simple thing," Lestrade assured.  
    
"Send her up!"  
    
Lestrade rushed over to the man's side, patting him on the shoulders to try and soothe him.  "Now, Mr 'Olmes, surely one's enough for today. Besides, I was thinking of hiring the girl to help me run the shop."  He let his fingers trail down Mycroft's shoulderblades as the barber went back over to the window.  Perhaps more affectionate than was appropriate between two men, but Mycroft didn't seem to mind.  
    
"Poor knees aren't what they used to be," he murmured as a last attempt to convince Mycroft to let him keep the girl around.  
    
"Alright."  
    
Lestrade smiled, pleased to have spared the girl of having her throat slit.  "Course, we're gonna have to stock up on the gin.  Girl drinks like a sailor..."

Mycroft was watching out the window when he saw two men approaching the house.  It was Beadle Bamford and...  
    
"The Judge."  Lestrade looked up as Mycroft went away from the window.  "Get out. Get out!"

Lestrade nodded quickly and ran down the steps back down into his shop.  Mycroft rushed to the mirror, looking himself over and seeing the blood on his sleeve.  Shit. Shit.  He glanced around and found his jacket in the corner of the room, pulling it on just in time as the Judge came in.  
    
"Mr Holmes?"  
    
Mycroft turned around quickly to greet the man.  "At your service," he said delicately.  "An honor to receive your patronage, my lord."  
    
"You know me, sir?" Magnussen asked with a faint furrow of his brow.  The man had an odd familiarity about him but the Judge, in his old age, could not quite place it.  
    
"Who in this wide world does not know the great Judge Magnussen?"  The Judge seemed pleased enough with this reasoning as to how Mycroft knew him, and took to glancing around the shabby-looking place.  
    
"These premises are hardly prepossessing," he mused.  "And yet the Beadle tells me you're the most accomplished of all the barbers in the city."  
    
"That is gracious of him, sir," said Mycroft.  "What may I do for you today, sir? A stylish trimming of the hair? Soothing skin massage?"  He gestured to the chair.  "Sit, sir. Sit."  
    
_You see, sir, a man infatuate with love_  
 _Her ardent and eager slave_  
    
_So fetch the pomade and pumice stone_  
 _And lend me a more seductive tone_  
    
_A sprinkling perhaps of French cologne_  
 _But first, sir, I think_  
    
_A shave_  
    
"The closest I ever gave," promised Mycroft softly, whistling as he began to sharpen his razor.  
    
"You're in a merry mood today, Mr Holmes," remarked the Judge.  
    
_'Tis your delight, sir, catching fire_  
 _From one man to the next_  
    
_'Tis true, sir, love can still inspire_  
    
_The blood to pound_  
 _The heart leap higher_  
    
_What more?_

_What more!_  
    
_Can man require than love, sir?_  
    
_More than love, sir_  
    
"What, sir?"

"Women," murmured Mycroft.

"Ah yes, women."

"Pretty...women."

Mycroft finished sharpening the blade and applying the shaving cream as he lifted his razor to the air, spotting his reflection in the blade.  
    
_Now then, my friend_  
    
_Now to your purpose_  
    
_Patience, enjoy it_  
    
_Revenge can't be taken in_

"Make haste, and if we wed, you'll be commended, sir," said the Judge, interrupting Mycroft's train of thought.  
    
"My lord," soothed Mycroft.  "And who, may it be said is your intended, sir?" he asked conversationally.  
    
"My ward. A pretty little rosebud," mused Magnussen.  
    
"Pretty as his sister?" breathed Mycroft.  
    
"What was that?"  
    
"Nothing, sir. Nothing," assured Mycroft. "May we proceed?"  
    
_Pretty women_  
    
_Fascinating_  
 _Sipping coffee_  
    
_Dancing_  
 _Pretty women!_  
    
_Are a wonder_  
    
_Pretty women_  
    
_Sitting in the window or_  
 _Standing on the stairs_  
    
_Something in them_  
 _Cheers the air_  
    
_Pretty women_  
    
_Silhouetted_  
    
_Stay within you_  
    
_Glancing!_  
    
_Stay forever_  
    
_Breathing lightly_  
    
_Pretty women_  
 _Pretty women_  
    
_Blowing out their candles or_  
    
_Combing out their hair_  
    
_Then they leave_  
    
_Even when they leave..._

_Even when they_  
 _Leave you and vanish..._  
    
_They somehow can still remain..._  
 _There with you_  
    
_Pretty women_  
    
_At their mirrors_  
 _In their gardens_  
    
_Letter-writing_  
 _Flower-picking_  
    
_Weather-watching_  
    
_How they make a man sing_

_Proof of heaven_   
_As you're living_

_Pretty women, sir!_  
 _Pretty women, yes!_  
    
_Pretty women, sir_  
 _Pretty women, pretty women_  
    
"Mr Holmes!" burst in the young sailor, John Watson.  "I've seen Sherlock and he said he'd leave...with me tonight."  His voice and expression dropped as he saw the very Judge Magnussen sitting in Mr Holmes' barber chair.  
    
" _You_ ," spat Magnussen, ripping off the cloth that had been draped over him and stepping out of the chair.

"There is indeed a higher power to warn me thus in time.  Sherlock elope with _you?_ " he growled angrily, wiping the shaving cream from his face.  "I'll make sure that neither you nor any other man shall ever set eyes on her again."  He whipped around, glaring daggers at Mycroft, who was frozen on the spot, unable to grasp the fact that his revenge was slipping away right before his eyes.  
    
"As for you, barber," spat Magnussen, drawing Mycroft from his trance.  "It's all too clear what company you keep. Service them well and hold their custom, for you'll have none of mine."

And with that, Judge Magnussen shoved past John, storming out of the building.  Mycroft's only hope of revenge slipping away with him.


	10. We All Deserve To Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the brief delay in updating! Happy Christmas, Happy Hanukkah (I believe today is the last day, isn't it?), and hope any Pagan readers enjoyed Yule.
> 
> I am still hoping to finish posting by New Year's :3

"Mr Holmes, you have to help me," pleaded John.

"Out," growled Mycroft, a rage coming over him he knew he soon wouldn't be able to control.

"Mr Holmes, please."

"Out," the barber growled again, fist clenching around the razor.

"Mr Holmes!"

"Out!" screamed Mycroft, enough to frighten the boy away, but moment later, up came Lestrade.

"All this shouting and running about -- What's happened?"

"I had him," growled Mycroft.

"The sailor busted in, I know. And then I saw them both running down the stairs."

"I had him!" Mycroft began to pace madly back and forth by the window, the razor still gripped tightly in his hand.

_His throat was bare beneath my hand_

"There, there, dear. Calm down," Lestrade tried to soothe, wary of the man's rage and the weapon he held.

"No, I had him!" shouted Mycroft. "His throat was there, and he'll never come again!"

_Easy now._   
_Hush, love, hush_

_I keep telling you_

"When?"

_What's your rush?_

"Why did I wait?" growled Mycroft. He looked up at Gregory, pointing his blade at him accusationally. "You told me to wait! Now he'll never come again!"

_There's a hole in the world_   
_Like a great black pit_

_And it's filled with people_   
_Who are filled with shit_

_And the vermin of the world inhabit it_

_But not for long!_

Mycroft had stopped pointing the blade at Lestrade but the baker was wary still, leaning against the door and keeping a safe distance from the barber.

_They all deserve to die_

_Tell you why, Greg Lestrade_   
_Tell you why_

_Because in all of_   
_The whole human race, Dear Gregory_

_There are two kinds of men_   
_And only two_

Greg tensed up as Mycroft approached him, razor in hand.

_There's the one staying put_   
_In his proper place_

_And the one with his foot_   
_In the other one's face_

_Look at me, Dear Gregory, look at you!_

The blade was against his throat and Greg was trying not to show his fear.

_No, we all deserve to die_

_Even you, Mr Lestrade_   
_Even I_

Relief sank over the baker as Mycroft moved away, back to pacing around the room.

_Because the lives of the wicked_   
_Should be made brief_

_For the rest of us, death will be a relief_

_We all deserve to die_

_And I'll never see Dear Sherlock_

_No, I'll never hug my boy to me_

"Finished!"

Dear god, he really had gone mad. Lestrade watched with mild horror as Mycroft wandered about the room with his blade, waving it around at thin air like a man possessed.

_"All right! You, sir. How about a shave?"_

_Come and visit_   
_Your good friend, Mycroft_

_You, sir, too, sir._   
_Welcome to the grave!_

_"I will have vengeance!"_

_"I will have salvation!"_

_Who, sir?_

_You, sir? No one's in the chair._   
_Come on, come on._

_Mycroft's waiting!_   
_I want you bleeders._

_You, sir! Anybody!_   
_Gentlemen, now don't be shy!_

_Not one man, no, nor ten men_   
_Nor a hundred can assuage me_

_I will have you!_

Mycroft threw his head back in jovial excitement at the revelation. The epiphany of how sweet vengeance could taste. So much sweeter than revenge. Oh, but not that he didn't want that too. Oh no, no, no.

_And I will get him back_   
_Even as he gloats_

_In the meantime_   
_I'll practice on less honorable throats_

_And my Anthea lies in ashes_

_And I'll never see my boy again_

_But the world waits!_

_I'm alive at last!_

_And I'm full of joy!_


	11. Seems An Awful Waste

"That's all very well, but what are we gonna do about him?" Lestrade said, nodding the the chest by the door.  Mycroft was on his knees in the centre of the room, blades in hands and basking in the light that came through from the sunroof.  Lost in his apparent epiphany.  
   
"Hello? Do you hear me?" Lestrade asked as he walked around to look at the man.  Mycroft didn't respond and Greg sighed, grabbing him under his arms and lugging him down the stairs to the bakery.  "Come on. You great useless thing."

"Sit down," Lestrade murmured as he hauled Mycroft into the booth.  He went back to his room to find Sally curled up on the floor around the bottle of gin, fast asleep.  Greg sighed and plucked it from her hands, swishing it around and pleased to find there was still a bit left.  He grabbed a glass and brought it back to Mycroft, setting it down and pouring the last of the bottle into it.  
   
"There. Drink it down," Lestrade said. "Now, we got a body moldering away upstairs."  He locked up the doors so no customers would stumble in.  Not that there would be any, but just in case.  "Now, what do you intend we should do about that, then?"  
   
Mycroft thought for a moment, swallowing down the gin.  "Later on when it's dark, we'll take it to some secret place and bury it," he decided lamely.  
   
"Oh, yeah. Course we could do that," Greg said, nodding and biting his lip.  "Don't suppose he's got any relatives that's gonna come poking around looking for him.."  He sighed faintly as he looked at his kitchen.  An idea came to him and he mulled it over a moment.

"Seems a downright shame..."

Mycroft looked up.  "Shame?"  
   
Greg pursed his lips.  "Seems an awful waste," he murmured.  "Such a nice plump frame, Whatsisname has...had," he corrected, and then paused, thinking.  

"Has."  
   
 _Nor it can't be traced_  
 _Business needs a lift_  
   
 _Debts to be erased_  
 _Think of it as thrift, as a gift_  
   
 _If you get my drift._

Mycroft didn't seem to, and Lestrade sighed again softly.

"Seems an awful waste.."  
   
 _I mean, with the price of meat what it is_  
 _When you get it, if you get it..._  
   
Mycroft looked up then, suddenly, a softly murmured "Oh" catching his lips, and Greg lit up.

"Good, you got it."  
   
 _Take, for instance_  
 _Mrs 'Ooper and her pie shop_  
   
 _Business never better_  
 _Using only pussycats and toast_  
   
 _Now a pussy's good for_  
 _Maybe six or seven at the most_  
   
 _And I'm sure they can't_  
 _Compare as far as taste_  
   
 _~Oh Lestrade, what a charming notion_  
 _~Eminently practical_  
   
 _~And yet appropriate as always_

_Well, it does seem a waste!_  
   
 _~Oh Lestrade, how I've lived without you_  
 _~All these years I'll never know!_  
   
 _Think about it_  
 _Lots of other gentlemen'll soon be_  
 _Coming for a shave_  
 _Won't they? Think of all them pies!_

_~How delectable!_  
 _~Also undetectable_  
   
 _~How choice! How rare!_  
   
 _~For what's the sound_  
 _~Of the world out there?_  
   
 _What, Mr 'Olmes, what, Mr 'Olmes_  
 _What is that sound?_  
   
 _~Those crunching_  
 _~Noises pervading the air?_  
   
 _Yes, Mr 'Olmes, yes, Mr 'Olmes_  
 _Yes, all around_  
   
 _~It's man devouring man out there_  
   
 _Then who are we to deny it in here?_  
   
"These are desperate times, Dear Gregory," said Mycroft, leaning over the counter. "And desperate measures are called for."  
   
Lestrade pulled a tray out of the oven with several pies on it and dropped one on a plate for Mycroft.  "Here we are, hot out of the oven."  
   
"What is that?"  
   
 _It's priest_  
 _Have a little priest_  
   
 _~Is it really good?_

_Sir, it's too good, at least_  
   
 _Then again they don't commit sins of the flesh_  
 _So it's pretty fresh_  
   
 _~Awful lot of fat_  
   
 _Only where it sat_  
   
 _~Haven't you got poet_  
 _~Or something like that?_  
   
 _No, you see the trouble with poet is_  
 _How do you know it's deceased?_  
   
 _Try the priest_  
   
The pair stood by the window, looking out the window on all the people walking by, grins painted on their faces.

_Lawyer's rather nice._  
 _~If it's for a price_  
   
 _Order something else, though, to follow_  
 _Since no one should swallow it twice_  
   
 _~Anything that's lean?_  
   
 _Well, then, if you're British and loyal_  
 _You might enjoy Royal Marine_  
   
 _Anyway, it's clean_  
   
 _Though, of course_  
 _It tastes of wherever it's been_  
   
 _~Is that squire on the fire?_  
   
 _Mercy no, sir, look closer_  
 _You'll notice it's grocer_  
   
 _~Looks thicker_  
 _~More like vicar_  
   
 _No, it has to be grocer_

"It's green!" whispered Lestrade, pointing to the grocer's green apron.  Mycroft grinned and pulled Lestrade into a twisted sort of waltz around the kitchen.  
   
 _~The history of the world, my love_

_Save a lot of graves_  
 _Do a lot of relatives favors_  
   
 _~Is those below serving those up above_  
   
 _Everybody shaves_  
 _So there should be plenty of flavors_  
   
 _~How gratifying for once to know_  
   
 _That those above_  
   
 _Will serve those down below!_  
   
"What is _that_?" asked Mycroft pointing to a bizarrely overdressed man outside.  
   
 _It's fop_  
 _Finest in the shop_

Lestrade gleefully ran through the kitchen around the countertop, pulling out more pies.

_Or we have some shepherd's pie_  
 _Peppered with actual shepherd on top_  
   
 _And I just begun_  
   
 _Here's the politician, so oily_  
 _It's served with a doily, 'ave one_  
   
 _~Put it on a bun_  
 _~Well, you never know if it's going to run_

_Try the friar, fried, it's drier_  
   
 _~No, the clergy is really_  
 _~Too coarse and too mealy_  
   
 _Then actor_  
 _It's compacter_  
   
 _~Ah, but always arrives overdone_

Mycroft pushed Lestrade against the wall with a meat cleaver to his throat, but this time Lestrade didn't feel the same fear he had earlier with the razor to his neck.

"I'll come again when you have Judge on the menu," growled Mycroft, pulling Lestrade back into their waltz.  
   
 _~Have charity towards the world, my pet_  
   
 _Yes, yes, I know, my love_  
   
 _~We'll take the customers_  
 _~That we can get_  
   
 _High-born and low, my love_  
   
 _~We'll not discriminate great from small_  
   
 _No, we'll serve anyone_

_~Meaning anyone_  
   
 _And to anyone at all!_


	12. I See No Lady

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry again in advance about all the gender confusion with Sherlock. Sherlock is agender but this is 19th century Britain so no one really gets or acknowledges that.

Judge Magnussen was back in his home, having gone upstairs to his pet, Sherlock's room and found him packing up a small suitcase with his most precious belongings, few that he had.

"So, it's true," Magnussen said, causing Sherlock to start.  
    
"Sir, a gentleman knocks before entering a lady's room," Sherlock said, perhaps a bit meakly.  Even when dressed in his more boyish clothes (save for, of course, the ever-present corsets), the Judge would refer to him as 'she' and Sherlock was never to question or argue, but to refer to himself as such as well.  It hardly mattered to him.  It was all just transport.  
    
"Indeed he does, but I see no lady," said Magnussen, causing Sherlock to flinch slightly. "I told myself the sailor was lying, that my Sherlock would never betray me, never..hurt me so."  
    
"Sir, I _will_ leave this place," said Sherlock sternly.

"I think that only appropriate," agreed Magnussen, which threw Sherlock off-guard a bit.  "Since you no longer find my company to your liking, we shall provide you with new lodgings.." he mused.

We?  Sherlock was about to ask when he saw the beadle lurking just outside the doorway.

"Until this moment I have spared the rod...But the ungrateful child has broken my heart."

Beadle Wilkes grabbed Sherlock, who struggled against him, but was too weak, and he was dragged down the stairs.  
    
"When you've learned to appreciate what you have, perhaps we shall meet again."  Sherlock was dragged into the back of a coach and the door slammed on him.  Judge Magnussen looked at him through the barred window with his horrid, shark-like eyes. "Until then.. think on your sins."  
    
"No! No, please!" cried John, as he had been coming down the street to take Sherlock away with him tonight.  
    
"Sherlock!" he called after the coach, but it was already halfway down the street. "Where are you taking her?" he shouted at the Judge.  "Tell me or I swear I'll -- "  
    
"You'd kill me, boy?" asked Magnussen. "Here I stand!"

John looked at him a moment longer but then turned and took off running down the street.  
    
"Sherlock!"

But he had only been able to keep up so long before the coach had slipped out of his sight and he couldn't know where it had gone.  It started to rain and the sailor leaned over, catching his breath, exhausted from the chase that had lasted at least a mile.

He'd find them.  He had to find them.

_I feel you, my Sherlock_  
 _I feel you_  
    
_Do they think that walls can hide you?_  
 _Even now, I'm at your window_  
    
_I am in the dark beside you_  
 _Buried sweetly in your curly hair_  
    
 --

Mycroft's every thought now was of Sherlock.  As he set up his workspace, cleaning the place up and getting a proper chair, even tinkering with it and the floor to create a passage straight down to Mr Lestrade's basement.  His Sherlock.  He'd never see him again now.

_And are you beautiful and pale_   
_With curly hair, like her?_

_I'd want you beautiful and pale_   
_The way I've dreamed you were_

_My Sherlock_

Business was picking up since he'd beaten Pirelli (in both senses of the word), and now of course, since Pirelli was no longer in business.  And of course, that meant business for Lestrade below as well, as he directed the men with families, whom Mycroft spared,downstairs to his 'lovely landlord's delicious pie shop'.  With the fresher meat, Lestrade's cooking was actually quite good.

Mycroft had even tried one or two.

_And if you're beautiful_  
 _What then with curly hair, like her_  
    
_I think we shall not meet again_  
 _My little dove, my sweet Sherlock_

_Goodbye, Dear Sherlock_  
    
_You're gone, and yet you're mine_  
    
_I'm fine, Dear Sherlock_  
    
_I'm fine!_

He thought about his brother a little less as time went on.  Forgot his old notion that one day he might teach him to be a proper barber.  A good skill for a young lad and he'd make a good heir to Mycroft's successful business once Mycroft retired.

Oh, but not now.  Not like this.  All the blood and horror.  Sherlock was always too soft and too delicate for anything like this.  A bit effeminate, but Mycroft never thought there was anything wrong about that..

He'd noticed a peculiar homeless woman who always seemed to be lurking around outside the shop now.  Strange. Must've been off her head by the looks of her.

_Smoke! Smoke! Sign of the devil_  
 _Sign of the devil. City on fire!_  
    
_Witch! Witch! Smell it, sir_  
 _An evil smell_  
    
_Every night at the vespers bell_   
    
_Smoke that comes from_  
 _The mouth of hell_  
    
_City on fire!_   
    
_City on fire_   
    
_Mischief! Mischief! Mischief!_

Mycroft never minded her, but Lestrade was always wary when she walked by, though Mycroft didn't blame him, especially when she went on about 'men doing what they ought not do with other men'.  Even Mycroft recoiled slightly from that and allowed Greg to send Sally out and shoo her away.  Not that some mad old woman's ramblings would be enough to get them hanged, but it may raise suspicion.

_And if I never hear your voice_  
 _My turtledove, my dear_  
    
_I still have reason to rejoice_  
 _The way ahead is clear_  
   
 _Dear Sherlock_  
    
_And in that darkness when I'm blind_  
 _With what I can't forget_  
    
_It's always morning in my mind_  
    
_My little lamb, my pet, My Sherlock_

_You stay, Dear Sherlock_  
 _The way I've dreamed you are_  
    
_Oh, look, oh, Sherlock! A star!_

_A shooting star!_

And perhaps as Mycroft grew more cheery with the fresh income of more victims, he grew a bit overly affectionate with his landlord on the floor below.  Perhaps the mad old woman had seen them dancing when Mycroft was in one of his manic swings, though when he fell into depression again, he'd retreat back up to his room and not come out for days. Fortunately Greg knew well enough to leave him be.

_There, there, somebody, somebody_   
_Look up there. Didn't I tell you?_

_Smell that air. City on fire!_

_Quick, sir, run and tell_  
 _Warn them all of the witch's spell_  
    
_There it is, there it is, the unholy smell_  
    
_Tell it to the Beadle and police as well_  
 _Tell them! Tell them!_  
    
_Help! Fiend! City on fire!_  
    
_City on fire_

_Mischief. Mischief._

Oh but the depressions seldom came now, only when there weren't enough throats to satisfy Mycroft's bloodlust.  And perhaps they did grow more affectionate than two men ought to.  Perhaps Lestrade fell into Mycroft's arms in the kitchen a bit too frequently.  Oh, but never too far.  Never far enough that it wasn't legal.

_And though I'll think of you, I guess_   
_Until the day I die_

_I think I miss you less and less_  
 _As every day goes by_  
    
_Dear Sherlock_  
    
Perhaps this was enough. It wasn't anything like before, nor would it ever be. But perhaps it was better being with Gregory and having Sally than it was brooding after his love and Sherlock, both of whom he knew he could never have.

_And you'd be beautiful and pale_  
 _And look too much like her_  
    
_If only angels could prevail_  
 _We'd be the way we were_  
    
_My Sherlock_  
    
_Wake up, My Sherlock_  
    
_Another bright red day_  
 _We learn, Dear Sherlock, to say_

_Goodbye_


	13. Mr Lestrade's Meat Pies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kid!Sally is adorable :3
> 
> And as horrible as it is, I really do like Gregory and Mycroft's twisted relationship.

_Ladies and gentlemen_   
_May I have your attention, please?_

_Are your nostrils a-quiver_  
 _And tingling as well_  
    
_At that delicate_  
 _Luscious ambrosial smell?_  
    
_Yes, they are, I can tell_  
    
_Well, ladies and gentlemen_  
 _That aroma enriching the breeze_  
    
_Is like nothing_  
 _Compared to its succulent source_  
    
_As the gourmets among you_  
 _Will tell you, of course_  
    
_Ladies and gentlemen_  
 _You can't imagine the rapture in store_  
    
_Just inside of this door!_

For the first time in ages, Lestrade's shop was _busy_. Very busy.  It seemed like the whole of London was there, and Greg was absolutely delighted by it.  Sally was quite a help with all the crowd that was there around lunch and supper, and of course it had all been thanks to Mycroft.

_There you'll sample_  
 _Mr Lestrade's meat pies_  
    
_Savory and sweet pies_  
 _As you'll see_  
    
_You who eat pies_  
 _Mr Lestrade's meat pies_  
    
_Conjure up the treat_  
 _Pies used to be!_  
    
"Sally!" called Lestrade from a table he was at.

"Coming!"  
    
"Ale there!" he said pointing.

"Right, sir!"

"Quick, now!"  
    
_Nice to see you, dearie_  
 _How 'ave you been keeping?_  
    
_Cor, me bones is weary_  
 _Sally! One for the gentleman_  
    
_Hear the birdies cheeping_  
 _'elps to keep it cheery_  
   
Greg bristled as he saw the mad homeless woman lurking around his shop again.

"Sally! Throw the old woman out!"

Sally knew by now which woman her boss always meant and quickly ran over to shoo her off.  
    
_What's my secret?_  
 _Frankly, dear, forgive my candor_  
    
_Family secret_  
 _All to do with herbs_  
    
_Things like being_  
 _Careful with your coriander_  
    
_That's what makes the gravy grander!_

There was a large crowd still coming in.  They'd be out of pies soon.

_Eat them slow and feel the crust_  
 _How thin he rolled it_  
    
_Eat them slow_  
 _'cause every one's a prize!_  
    
_Eat them slow 'cause_

"That's the lot and now we've sold it! Come again tomorrow!"  
    
"Hold it!" said Lestrade over Sally as a man walked up to Mycroft's shop upstairs.  
    
_Bless my eyes!_  
    
_Fresh supplies!_  
    
_How about it, dearie?_  
 _Be here in a twinkling!_

_Is that a pie_   
_Fit for a king_   
_A wondrous sweet_   
_And most delectable thing?_

Lestrade beamed as Mycroft came out from his shop a few minutes later and shot the baker a wink.

_Just confirms me theory, Sally!_  
 _God watches over us_  
    
_Didn't have an inkling, positively eerie_  
    
"Sally! Throw the old woman out!"


	14. By The Sea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Gregory :(

The three had taken a day off, sitting on a hill having a cosy little picnic.  The business was doing splendidly and Lestrade thought he'd never be happier, not while Mycroft was with him, and even the barber seemed to be cheering up in his moods a bit.

"Still got to keep an eye on the household expenditure," Greg mused. "Which isn't to say we couldn't get some nice taxidermy animals...bring a touch of gentility to the place.  You know, a boar's head or two?"  He looked up at the barber, who was staring absently over the hill.

"Mr 'Olmes? You listening to me?"

"Of course."  
   
Lestrade frowned.  "Then what did I just say?"

"There must be a way to the Judge..." murmured Mycroft.  
    
"Judge." Greg frowned still. "Always harping on the bloody old judge." He moved closer to Mycroft.  Sally had run off to go use the loo.  "We got a nice respectable business now.  Money coming in regular-like."  He paused, glancing over his shoulder to make sure Sally hadn't come back.  "And since we're careful to pick and choose, strangers, people who won't be missed, who's gonna catch on?" He checked that Sally wasn't looking and pecked a small kiss on the barber's cheek.  
    
_Oh, Mr Holmes, I'm so happy_  
    
_I could eat you up, I really could_  
    
_You know what I'd like to do, Mr Holmes?_  
 _What I dream?_  
    
_If the business stays as good_  
 _Where I'd really like to go..._  
    
_In a year or so?_  
 _Don't you want to know?_  
    
"Of course," he said monotonously, mind still enraptured with the Judge, but he was decent enough to at least pretend.  
    
_Do you really want to know?_  
    
"Yes. I do."  
    
_By the sea, Mr Holmes_  
 _That's the life I'll covet_  
    
_By the sea, Mr Holmes_  
 _Oh, I know you'd love it_  
    
_You and me, Mr 'Olmes, we could be alone_  
 _In a house what we'd almost own_  
    
_Down by the sea_

"Anything you say."  
    
_Wouldn't that be smashing?_  
    
_Think how snug it'll be_  
 _Underneath our flannel_  
    
_When it's just you and me_  
 _And the English Channel_  
    
_In our cosy retreat_  
 _Kept all neat and tidy_  
    
_We'll have chums over every Friday_  
 _By the sea_  
   
Mycroft tried not to visibly bristle at the notion of them having friends.

_Don't you love the weather_  
 _By the sea?_  
    
_We'll grow old together_  
    
_By the seaside_  
 _By the beautiful sea_

Sally returned and Lestrade smiled at the thought of the three of them in a cosy seaside home.  Perhaps it was rather unrealistic, but Greg thought it sounded just perfect.  And he and Mycroft wouldn't have to worry about people like that nasty homeless woman not minding their own business.  Maybe Mycroft would even say he loved him.

_It'll be so quiet that who'll come by it_   
_Except a seagull~_

They finished up their picnic and Sally helped Greg pick up the basket and blanket, Mycroft still lost brooding in his thoughts about revenge on Judge Magnussen.

_By the seaside_   
_By the beautiful sea_

"I brought you some breakfast, dear," Greg said as he came into the upper level of the building where the barber resided.  He set down the tray of food on the table and sighed softly, looking at his thin, worn figure outlined in the window.

"Mr 'Olmes? Can I ask you a question?"  
    
"What?" he replied, not looking up from the window.  
    
"What did your Anthea look like?"

There was a long pause of silence when Mycroft didn't respond.  "Can't really remember, can you?" murmured Greg.  
    
"She had..brown hair," answered Mycroft lamely.  
    
Greg sighed, coming over by the window and brushing his fingertips along Mycroft's shoulder again.  "You gotta leave this all behind, you know. She's gone."  He sighed faintly.  "Life is for the alive, my dear. We could have a life, us two...Maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you remember.  But we could get by."


	15. Not While I'm Around

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for such a long hiatus! My family was all here for New Year's and I've barely had a moment to myself, and now I've got finals next week, but I've only got two more chapters to put up so they *should* all be up by Monday.

Mycroft and Gregory were upstairs in the barber shop, Greg lounging in the chair as he usually did, while Mycroft stood by the window.  Though they were more peaceful and relaxed in these positions than they often had been before.  Mycroft seemed to have found his peace and accepted the fact that he was unlikely to ever get Magnussen.  He didn't verbally lash out so much.  In fact, he was almost sort of..gentle, Gregory thought. It was nice.

Once again, the young Captain John Watson interrupted the couple, bursting into the shop as though he'd run all the way here.  Certainly looked like he had.

"Mr Holmes! Mr Lestrade, sir?"

"What is it, John?" asked Greg, knowing Mycroft never answered until the matter had fully peaked his interest.  He'd learnt as much from being with him so long.  
    
"He has her locked in a madhouse."

There it was.  And Mycroft turned from the window to look at the lad.  "Sherlock."  
    
"Moriarty's Asylum," said John.  "I've circled the place a dozen times. There's no way in. It's a fortress."  
    
"I've got him," Mycroft murmured in a barely audible growl.  The Judge.

"Mr Holmes?"  
    
"We've got her."

John furrowed his brow, not seeing how the fact that Sherlock was locked in a near-impenetrable fortress of a loony-bin was a sign that they had her.  Mycroft sighed faintly like he was annoyed with John's inability to realise this.  
    
"Where do you suppose all the wigmakers in London go to obtain their hair?" he prompted. "Bedlam. They get it from the lunatics at Bedlam."

John frowned slightly.  "I don't understand."  
    
"We shall set you up as a wigmaker's apprentice. That'll gain you access...And then you take her."  He waved John off.  "Go, quickly, go!"  John nodded and ran out the door.  Mycroft turned to Lestrade.  "Fetch the girl."  
    
"Don't you think you should leave the girl behind?" Greg asked, not wanting his dear Sally, whom he'd grown rather attached to, in harm's way.  Mycroft wasn't listening though and Lestrade let out a small sigh, going downstairs to fetch her.  
    
"Sally. Mr Holmes needs you," he said, finding her still washing up some dishes in the kitchen from last night's rush.

"Just a minute, sir," she said.  "Almost through."

Greg shook his head, walking over to her to take the dishrag.  "I'll take care of them, you go on upstairs.  Mr 'Olmes is waiting."

"Yes, sir," she said, rolling back down her sleeves as she went up the stairs.  
    
"Mr Holmes?"  
    
Mycroft looked up as the girl came in.  "Do you know where the Old Bailey is?"

"Yes, sir. Not that I ever been there."  
    
"Take this there," said Mycroft, handing her a letter. "Seek out a Judge Magnussen. Repeat that."  
    
"Go to Old Bailey. Find Judge Magnussen," she echoed.  
    
"You put that into his hands -- only to him, you understand?"  
    
"Yes, sir," she said.  "And while I'm out, do you mind if I stop by the grocer just to pick -- "  
    
"No. You're not to stop, you're not to speak," Mycroft said sternly. "You're to deliver the letter. Do you understand?"  
    
"Yes, sir."

Sally turned and headed off to where Mycroft had instructed her, wary of strangers, just as any girl of her age ought to be wandering around London by herself.  But she was used to running errands for Signor Pirelli and so she knew how to keep herself safe.  It was a few hours before she returned back to find Lestrade in his flat, finishing off a bottle of gin.  
    
"Where you been, love?" he asked, glancing up as she came in.  "We had quite the rush at dinner time. Me poor bones is ready to drop."  
    
"Mr Holmes sent me on an errand," she said. "And on the way back, I went by the workhouse, just to take a look. And I was thinking...but for you, I'd be there now. Or someplace worse. Seems like the good Lord sent you for me."  
    
"Oh, love, I feel quite the same way," Greg murmured sleepily, pulling the girl into a loose hug.  
    
"Listen to me, please," she said, pulling away.  "You know there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. Say, if there were someone around, someone bad? Only you didn't know it..."  
    
Lestrade furrowed his brow. "What's this? What are you talking about?"  
    
_Nothing's gonna harm you_  
 _Not while I'm around_  
    
_Nothing's gonna harm you_  
 _No, sir, not while I'm around_  
    
"What do you mean 'someone bad'?" Gregory asked with a frown as he sat back down on his sofa/bed, and the girl sat with him.  
    
_Demons are prowling everywhere_  
 _Nowadays_  
    
_I'll send them howling, I don't care_  
 _I got ways_  
    
"Hush, darling, there's no need for this," Lestrade murmured, trying to soothe her as he realised who she was talking about.  If she started to realise, then they'd have to...  He shook the thought from his head.  
    
_No one's gonna hurt you_  
 _No one's gonna dare_  
    
_Others can desert you_  
 _Not to worry, whistle, I'll be there_  
    
_Demons will charm you_  
 _With a smile_  
    
_For a while, but in time_  
    
_Nothing can harm you_  
    
_Not while I'm around_  
    
"That's nice, dear," Greg said, trying to brush it aside, and hoping she'd let it drop.  "Now, what is all this foolishness? What are you talking about?"  
    
"Little things that I've been thinking about Mr Holmes.." she said.  
    
_Not to worry, not to worry_  
 _I may not be smart, but I ain't dumb_  
    
_I can do it, put me to it_  
 _Show me something I can overcome_  
    
_Not to worry, sir_  
    
_Being close and being clever_  
 _Ain't like being true_  
    
_I don't need to, I won't never_  
 _Hide a thing from you_  
    
_Like some_  
    
Greg frowned, sitting back up.  "Now, Sally, dear, haven't we had enough of this foolish chatter?"  God, he hoped she'd drop the issue.  He stood up, hoping he might manage to distract her enough that she'd forget, at least for the time being. "Here," he said, pulling his coin purse out of the drawer. "How about I give you a nice shiny new penny and you go get us some toffees?"  
    
"That's Signor Pirelli's purse!" she said, pointing with some slight horror on her face.  
    
"No, it's not," Greg said quickly. "Just something Mr 'Olmes gave me for my birthday."

"That proves it!" she exclaimed, jumping up off the sofa.  "We gotta go, sir! We gotta find the Beadle and get the law here!"

Greg set sown the purse and rushed over to her, drawing her into a firmer embrace.  "Sally. Hush, love, you're not going anywhere," he murmured, rubbing small circles on the girl's back and stroking her wild, curly hair. "You just sit here, nice and quiet, next to me. That's right," he murmured, pulling her back down onto the sofa with him.  He lifted her chin up to look at him. "How could you think such a thing of Mr Holmes? He's been so good to us.." he soothed, holding back tears as he knew there was no evading it for her now.  
    
_~Nothing's gonna harm you_  
 _~Not while I'm around_  
    
_~Nothing's gonna harm you, darling_  
 _~Not while I'm around_  
    
_Demons'll charm you with a smile_  
 _For a while_  
    
_But in time_  
    
_Nothing's gonna harm you_  
    
_Not while I'm around_

Greg pulled away once he was certain there was no chance of him letting a tear slip in front of the girl.  "Funny we should be having this little chat right now.  'Cause I was just thinking...You know how you've always fancied coming into the bake house with me to help make the pies?"

"Yes, sir," she said softly, looking up at him.

"Well, no time like the present, eh?"

Sally smiled, and Greg bit his lip, standing and leading her out of his room and to the basement staircase.

"I feel bad for you, going up and down all these stairs," said Sally as they made the descend.  
    
"Well, that'll be your job now," Greg replied.

"Yes, sir. Quite a stink, ain't there?" she said, wrinkling her nose as they reached the bottom of the steps.  
    
"You see those grates?" Greg said, pointing. "They go right down to the sewers, and the smells come up.  Always a few rats gone home to Jesus down there."  
    
"Now, this'll be the bake oven," he said, leading her over.  "Three dozen at a time. Always be sure the door is closed properly, like this," he explained, demonstrating how to close it all the way.  
    
"Door's closed proper," she repeated, sealing it to her memory.

"This is a grinder," Greg said, leading her over to the other large metal machine in the basement.  "Pop in the meat, give it a good grind...Pops out there. You try."  
    
"Good grind," she said, cranking the lever, and then walked around to where it came out. "Comes out there."  
    
"That's my girl," Greg said proudly, turning his back as his eyes started to wet with tears. "I'm just gonna pop upstairs, back in two shakes, all right?  
    
"You mind if I have a pie while I wait?" Sally asked him.  
    
Greg paused, biting his lip to try to minimize the cracking of his voice.  "As many as you like, love."


	16. The Mercy of Your Children

"Yes, sir, I agree. It would be to our mutual interest to come to some arrangement in regard to my poor children's hair," said the owner and operator of the asylum, Mr James Moriarty, as he led John around the place.  
    
"Blondes. Redheads," he said as they walked past rooms with each. "I keep the brunettes in here," he said, stopping in front of the door. "It was brown hair you was looking for, sir?"  
    
"Yes."

The man nodded and unlocked the door.  As he came in, he hissed at the girls, frightening them enough for them to keep a safe distance from him and John.

He spotted Sherlock quickly enough; they had shorter hair than the rest of the girls, though in the time they'd been locked away here, it had grown to near shoulder length of those lovely dark-chocolate coloured curls.  
    
"That one there has the shade I need."

The man nodded, beckoning Sherlock closer.  "Come, child."  They looked hesitant, as though they had been hurt by this man before and John frowned at that, but after a moment, they did come closer.  
    
"Smile for the gentleman and you shall have a sweetie," Moriarty purred, running his fingers through their hair once and pulling out his scissors. "Now, where shall I cut?"

But when he looked up, John had drawn his pistol and was aiming it right at the man.  
    
"Not another word, Mr Moriarty, or it will be your last," John said, and with his free hand, beckoned Sherlock over to him.  They were much more willing and less afraid of moving closer to him, and clung to John's side as he placed an arm around them.  
    
As John stepped back toward the door, he lowered the gun.  "Now, I leave you to the mercy of your _children_."

And he slammed the door shut.  
    
\--

"I got 'er locked in, but if she escapes, she'll go to the law," Greg said as he stood in the kitchen, by the door, and Mycroft sat at the table, looking pensive.  
    
"Then she won't escape."

Lestrade frowned.  "I don't know, Mr Holmes.."  
    
"The Judge'll be here soon," he said.  He didn't have time to think of some pesky servant girl who could easily be cured with a quick slit to her throat.

There was a knock on the door behind Greg and he jumped, turning around to see Beadle Sebastian Wilkes.  Mycroft stood up quickly as well and opened the door.  
    
"'Scuse me, sir. Gave me a fright," said Greg.  
    
"Not my intention, good sir. I assure you," he said.  "Though I am here on official business. You see, there's been some complaints about the stink from your chimney. They say at night it is something most foul."  Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged a brief glance at each other before turning back to the Beadle.  
    
"Health regulations and the general public welfare naturally being my duty, I'm afraid I'm gonna have to take a look at your bakehouse."

Mycroft and Greg looked at each other again, though this time for Mycroft to silently tell him he had the situation under control.  He stepped through the doorway to stand outside with the Beadle.  
    
"Of course, sir. But first, why don't you come upstairs? Let me pamper you."

The Beadle smiled, his vanity having been effectively appealed to, and Mycroft could tell now that whatever he may say, the barber would have him upstairs before he found himself in their bakehouse.  
    
"Much as I do appreciate tonsorial doormen, I really ought to see to my official obligations first."  
    
Mycroft nodded.  "I completely understand."  He paused, sniffing the air, and then closer to the Beadle to smell his cologne.  
    
"If you'll indulge me, sir, what is that exotic aroma?"  
    
The Beadle grinned again and Lestrade watched Mycroft easily twist and manipulate the man.  

"Me secret, is a touch of ambergris."  
    
Mycroft nodded, with mock interest.  "Dare I offer you something a tad more appropriate for a gentleman of your standing?" he asked and when the Beadle seemed hesitant, he added "The ladies will greatly appreciate it, sir."  
    
There it was.  He'd won him.  "You're the expert in these matters."  
    
"Only take a moment," Mycroft assured, leading him up the stairs.

It only took a moment as Mycroft had promised, and the Beadle's corpse fell down the chute and into the basement bakehouse.

Quite unfortunate for poor little Sally, who was still down there and let out a scream when she saw the body drop onto the concrete floor.  She ran up the stairs and pounded her fist on the foor.  
    
"Let me out! Please, let me out! Let me out!"

Lestrade could hear her from where he was in the kitchen and he bit down on his lip, a tear rolling down his cheek.


	17. And She Was Beautiful

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! Grand finale! Now read it and then go tell all your friends about it and your followers on tumblr. :3

"Sally?" called Mycroft as he and Gregory walked down the steps into the bakehouse, closing the door behind them. Where was she?

"Sally, where are you, love?" called Greg.

"Sally?"

_Nothing's gonna harm you_   
_Not while I'm around_

"Sally? Where are you hiding?"

_Nothing's gonna harm you, darling_   
_Not while I'm around_

"Sally?"

\--

"Mr Holmes?" called John as he came into Mycroft's tonsorial parlour. He was nowhere to be seen and John frowned, turning to Sherlock. "You wait for him here. I'll return with a coach in less than half an hour." Despite the sailor's assurances, the sixteen-year-old still looked terrified. "Don't worry. No one'll recognize you. You're safe now."

"Safe?" Sherlock asked softly, voice just above a whisper. "So, we run away and then all our dreams come true?"

John smiled, tucking a lock of Sherlock's longish hair behind his ear. "I hope so."

"I've never had dreams. Only nightmares."

"Sherlock," John said, frowning, "when we're free of this place all the ghosts will go away."

"No, John. They never go away..." Sherlock murmured. John frowned, pressing a kiss onto the boy's head.

"I'll be right back to you. Half an hour and we'll be free."

With that, he ran off, and Sherlock was alone, unaware that this was his brother-in-law's place. It had an eerie familiarity to it though.

"Beadle! Beadle!" cried a voice outside. Sherlock jumped and scrambled to find a place to hide, picking the chest by the door and climbing inside just as a raggedy homeless woman burst in. Sherlock watched through the lid cracked slightly open as the spun around the room.

_No good hiding, I saw you_

_Are you in there still, Beadle?_   
_Beadle?_

_Beadle, dear Beadle?_

_Beadle deedle deedle_   
_Deedle deedle dumpling_

_Beadle dumpling..._

The door swung open again and a tall man came in, looking like a mess. There was the vaguest familiarity about him, but mostly, Sherlock felt only fear, and he lowered the lid a bit more.

"Who are you?" the man questioned the woman. "What are you doing here?"

"Evil is here, sir," she whispered. "The stink of evil, from below, from him!" Her voice rose to a shout. "Oh, he's the Devil's wife."

The man grabbed something off his table, Sherlock couldn't quite see, but the man seemed angered by the woman's ramblings.

"Beware him, sir. He with no pity in his heart -- " She paused for a moment, looking up at him and spoke in a more hushed tone. "Don't I know you, mister?"

The man didn't answer, though, just flicked the blade in his hand across her neck, slitting her throat, and Sherlock placed a hand over his mouth as the man pressed a lever, dropping her corpse down a trap door in the floor.

Just in time, as the door burst open again, and another man came in. Judge Magnussen.

"Mr Holmes? Where is she?" he asked once he spotted the barber.

"Below, Your Honor. With my neighbour," said Mr Holmes.

"Thank heavens the sailor did not molest her," said the Judge.

"Thank heavens, too, she has seen the error of her ways," said Mr Holmes. Sherlock furrowed his brow as he watched the false conversation about himself. Mr Holmes..that was the man John had said they'd be meeting.

"She has?" asked the Judge softly.

"Oh, yes," replied Mr Holmes. "Your lesson was well-learned. She speaks only of you. Longing for forgiveness."

"Then she shall have it," the Judge said with a softness of his voice that Sherlock had never heard before. "She'll be here soon, you say?"

"Yes."

"Excellent, my friend!" the Judge exclaimed, clasping his hands together.

"How about a shave?"

\--

Mycroft had him. Oh, he had him. He really did. He wouldn't let the Judge slip from his grasp this time.

"Sit, sir. Sit." And Magnussen obliged.

_Oh, pretty women_   
_Pretty women, yes_

_~Sherlock, oh, Sherlock_

_Pretty women are a wonder_

_Pretty women!_

_What we do for pretty women!_

_Blowing out their candles_   
_Or combing out their hair_

_~Then they leave_   
_Even when they leave you and vanish_

_~They still are there_   
_They somehow can still remain_

_There with you, there_   
_~They're there_

"How seldom it is one meets a fellow spirit," mused the Judge as Mycroft finished sharpening his razor.

"With fellow tastes in women, at least," murmured Mycroft darkly.

The Judge's brow furrowed. "What's that?"

"The years, no doubt, have changed me, sir. But then, I suppose the face of a barber, the face of a prisoner, a dog, is not particularly memorable..."

Magnussen looked up at him in shock, eyes wide.

"Benjamin Barker."

Mycroft raised his razor to the air. "Benjamin Barker!" he screamed. And the blade plunged into his throat, stabbing him over, and over, in the bloodiest murder he'd committed. The blood landed everywhere. His face, his clothes, the floor, even the window on the roof. Sherlock thought he might be sick.

With a press of the lever attached to the chair, the trap door fell open, and the cleverly engineered chair leaned back to let Judge Magnussen fall down the chute into the bakehouse.

_Rest now, my friend_

_Rest now forever_

_Sleep now the untroubled_

_Sleep of the angels..._

There was a creak from the chest by the door and Sherlock froze as he saw Mr Holmes approaching him and flinging open the chest.

"Come for a shave, have you, lad?" he asked, grabbing the poor boy up out of the chest and bringing him near the chair.

"No, I..." Sherlock tried to protest, though his voice was small and afraid.

"Everyone needs a good shave."

There was a scream from the basement, and Mycroft looked back at the boy.

"Forget my face."

He turned and ran down the steps, through Greg's place and down into the bakehouse where he heard the man screaming.

"Die! God in heaven, die!"

Mycroft rushed over to him, reaching the bottom of the steps, and Lestrade was starting to panic now that he saw who else had been dropped down along with the Judge. _Her._

"You. Why did you scream?"

Lestrade shook his head dismissively. "He was clutching onto me leg, but he's finished now," he said, quickly trying to drag the man over to the grinder.

"I'll take care of it. Open the door." Lestrade didn't listen immediately and Mycroft repeated himself. "Open the door, I said."

Lestrade bit his lip and let go of the Judge to go open the furnace door, which let Mycroft look at both bodies there. The Judge, and...

Mycroft's lips parted slightly as he saw her.

_Don't I know you?_ she said...

Mycroft crouched down beside the woman. A line of worry crossed Lestrade's brow as he spoke. "You knew she lived."

"I was only thinking of you," said Lestrade.

"You lied to me."

_No, no, not lied at all_   
_No, I never lied_

"Anthea..."

_Said she took a poison_   
_She did, never said that she died_

"I've come home again."

_Poor thing, she lived_   
_But it left her weak in the head_

_All she did for months_   
_Was just lie there in bed_

_Should've been in hospital_

_Wound up in Bedlam instead_   
_Poor thing!_

_Better you should think she was dead_

Mycroft held her to his chest. "Oh, my God..."

_Yes, I lied 'cause I love you!_   
_I'd be twice the wife she was!_

"Anthea..."

_I love you!_

"What have I done?"

_Could that thing have_   
_Cared for you like me?_

Mycroft let go of his Anthea and stood, so suddenly that Lestrade was -- not unreasonably - frightened.

_Greg Lestrade, you're a bloody wonder_   
_Eminently practical_

_And yet appropriate as always_   
_As you've said repeatedly_

_There's little point in dwelling_   
_On the past_

Lestrade backed away slowly, never so scared of the man as he was now.

_Now, come here, my love_

"Do you mean it? Everything I did, I swear, I thought was only for the best."

_Not a thing to fear, my love_   
_What's dead is dead_

Slowly, Lestrade approached him, falling into his arms like they had done so many times.

"Can we still be lovers?"

As he asked, Mycroft led them in the same twisted sort of waltz as they'd done together before.

_The history of the world, my pet_

_~Oh, Mr Holmes, oh, Mr Holmes_   
_~Leave it to me_

_Is learn forgiveness and try to forget_

_~By the sea, Mr Holmes_   
_~We'll be comfy-cosy_

_~By the sea, Mr Holmes_   
_~Where there's no one nosy_

Lestrade's fear was beginning to slip as he thought maybe Mycroft really had forgiven him. The couple waltzed around the bakehouse, until they grew closer to the furnace.

_And life is for the alive, my dear_   
_So let's keep living it_

_Just keep living it, really living it!_

And in a swift twirl, graceful through their dance, Mycroft shoved the baker into the fire of the furnace, and slammed the door shut on him. Muffled screams of pain could be heard through the metal as Gregory Lestrade burned to death. But Mycroft ignored them, going back to kneel on the ground and hold his precious Anthea, unaware of Sally Donovan lurking in the shadows nearby, knife in hand.

_There was a barber and his wife_

_And she was beautiful_

_A foolish barber and his wife_

_She was his reason and his life_

_And she was beautiful_

_And she was virtuous_

_And he was..._


End file.
